


Shortfic collection

by thought



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Space, F/F, Gen, Other, Transhumanism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-07-25 20:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A variety of fic, most written in response to tumblr prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. While driving or in/around a car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation into Korean [here](http://duosion.tistory.com/5)

Shaw's being shot at by four assholes in business suits who have probably never fired anything more powerful than a rubber band cannon and one asshole who has clearly had perhaps even more military training than she has and no compunctions about using it to leave Shaw and any unfortunate bystander who happens to get in the way in a bloody mess on the sidewalk.

The first snowfall of winter has melted and refrozen overnight into sheets of ice that coat the pavement smooth and slick and if Shaw were another sort of person she'd probably make some sort of comparison to a dance floor and the grace and skill of her life-and-death performance. She's not that sort of person, of course, so when Root's voice pipes in through her earpiece all breezy casual and distant amusement and "oh, sweetie, would you like a hand?" Shaw just starts swearing at her in German. It's a very satisfying language to swear in, and it's one of the very few European languages Root doesn't know, which makes it doubly enjoyable.

"You're odds aren't looking great," Root says, like she's commenting on the weather. Shaw ducks behind a dumpster long enough to reload.

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"I'll keep that in mind. Forty seconds, mark."

Shaw glares at the security camera across the street and hopes The Machine passes the message along. One of the business suits skids out into the alley in front of her dumpster and Shaw puts two bullets in her kneecaps before she can regain her balance.

"Duck," The Machine says, cutting Root off in the middle of an absent minded innuendo. Shaw drops down just in time to avoid a chunk of brick that comes flying over the top of the dumpster. Or rather, from over the edge of the dumpster.

"That's just embarrassing," Shaw says, even as she's scampering back to get out of reach of the guy in all black scrambling out of the dumpster with three guns and a rotten banana peel. He glares at her.

"Less judging, more dying," he grumbles. Shaw shoots the ground where he's about to land and he kicks off the side of the dumpster hard, propelling himself in a controlled fall off to her left. She's about to turn to go after him, but Root's voice gives her pause.

"Ten seconds. To you're right, sixty degrees, Sam."

Shaw turns just in time to see the car fishtailing to turn sharply into the alley, tires scrabbling for a grip on the ice and breaks screeching.

"Want a ride?" Root coos. Shaw huffs.

"I was fine," she says, but she books it to the car, dodging more gunfire and a well-aimed apple core as she runs. She dives into the passenger side, letting the car's momentum slam the door shut behind her even as she pokes her head out of the sunroof to try and get a visual on dumpster guy or military asshole. Dumpster guy appears to have given up, but she trades a few parting shots with military asshole and manages to shoot another business suit right in the ass, so she figures the score is pretty even.

"You could have stuck around to help out," she says to Root, sliding back down into her seat. "do you know how hard it was to track this guy down.... what the fuck, Root?"

"Little busy, sweetie," Root's voice comes over her earpiece. Shaw stares at the driver's seat.

"No. absolutely not."

"What, are you getting picky about your dashing rescues now, Sameen?"

"No. What the fuck. How-- She definitely does not have a driver's licence. Do not tell me you somehow got a driver's licence."

"I could," The Machine says. Shaw frowns darkly at the empty driver's seat, even as the car slides neatly back into the regular flow of traffic. "Analog interface could--"

"No," Root says. "analog Interface could not. I never even took my own driver's test, I'm certainly not helping you take yours."

Shaw climbs over the console and settles into the driver's seat. She doesn't even twitch when the seat adjusts for her height without her touching a thing.

"Ok, you've had your fun," she says, "but I'd prefer not to die because somebody's security camera has shitty coverage."

"I a perfectly capable of controlling this vehicle," The Machine says. "My record of motor vehicle operation has a 100% success rate, and I am capable of optimizing your trip time. Ask Admin."

"No," Shaw says. "This is too far." She presses her foot on the gas. Nothing happens.

"You have just been involved in a high stress situation. Your body will soon be coming down from the adrenaline, reducing your reaction time. You also have a pulled muscle in your shoulder which will decrease the functionality of any shoulder checking."

"Listen, robot Overlord, I've been driving cars successfully for twenty-some years. Literally longer than you've been alive. Let me drive."

"If you are concerned about our comparative experience, would it not make more sense to allow me the opportunity to gain this experience so my performance will be more reassuring in the future?"

"Not while I'm in the car. Now hand it over."

"I am not holding--"

"I will turn off every camera in our bedroom."

"I have wireless access to all of your electronic devices. Including those of a sexual nature."

"I don't need toys to make things interesting."

Root cuts in to their conversation. "As adorable as you two are, I... may or may not be locked in a CIA facility and there may or may not be kind of a lot of guards on their way. Just. Fun life updates that would be avoided if you'd let me get a twitter account."

"No," Shaw and The Machine say in unison. Shaw feels her adrenalin resurfacing.

"Ok, play time's over, let me have control. I'm gonna be breaking some traffic laws."

"I can calculate the most efficient speed and route to reach Analog Interface's current location. There is no need to risk human error."

"Are you even capable of breaking the speed limit?"

"Would you like to find out?"

"Hashtag Gitmo," Root chirps.

"That's not funny," Shaw says.

"There are definite advantages to a motorcycle," Root muses. "Entirely unusable by adorable tiny girlfriends and adorable AI girlfriends alike."

Shaw clenches her teeth. Suddenly, her foot on the gas jerks the car forward. "Take your next left," The Machine says.

Shaw smirks. "About time. I'll be there as fast as I can, Root."

"Good to see you two getting along."

"We have mutual goals," The Machine says. Shaw reaches over to the glove box. A fresh package of zipties falls out as soon as she opens it.

"Yeah we do," she says.

"That's so romantic," Root says.

"That's... a word," says Shaw. "You know what else is a word, Root? Tiny. Tiny sure is a word."

"...Sameen? Sweetie?"

"Wow. Look at all these zipties."

"It is unfortunate," The Machine says. "How such primitive forms of equipment are entirely out of my domain."

Root swallows. "You know, on second thought, I can probably deal with the CIA on my own, I wouldn't worry about it."

"Next right," The Machine says. Shaw watches the needle on the speedometer climb higher.


	2. When it rains/snows/storms.

It's raining when Root is released from the hospital. Jen is coming to pick her up and drive her back to the apartment at 3:00. Shaw had wanted to be there but she and Jason are working a last-minute relevant number in Ottawa. Root's head still aches, even with the codeine, and she's not looking forward to an hour in New York traffic in Jen's shitty little jeep, but no one had been ok with her leaving on her own and catching a taxi.

Caleb and Megan spend the morning in her hospital room running tests. It's exhausting, but Root appreciates their dedication. She wiggles her fingers and toes for Megan, let's her flash lights in her eyes, touches her nose with her index finger. Caleb hunches over his laptop in the corner, suit coat and tee-shirt like he's walked straight out of 1990s Silicon Valley. he types a string of numbers into a notepad app, has Root repeat them back. He leaves the room, taking everybody's cell phones with him, and Megan reads Root a series of poems. When Caleb comes back in, all the text of the poems is printed out on his screen.

"Definitely try to stay away from Faraday cages in the future," he says, and he and Megan exchange a slightly hysterical chuckle.

//And never unplug your USB without clicking eject first//

//That isn't funny.//

/It is, a little. Sorry, sweetie.//

Root signs herself out at 2:30. There's someone she needs to talk to.

"You forgot your umbrella," she calls out, striding across the parking lot and up onto the grass. The man on the bench looks up. "Hi, Harry. Admin."

"Hello," he says, in that sort of uncertain way you might when confronted with an unexpected child.

She sits down beside him, ignoring the rainwater soaking into her jeans. He has been sitting here for an hour already, and his hair is plastered flat to his skull, water blurring his glasses.

"A shame there isn't an ice cream stand," Root says. Harry presses his lips together.

"I never told you about that."

"Not me."

He turns to look at her, finally. "I came to apologize. It was cruel of me not to visit you in the hospital."

"You were angry."

"I still am. But I should have been able to set that aside. You could have died. Either of you."

"Megan and Caleb said there was an 87% chance of success. We didn't go into this lightly."

"And if it hadn't been successful? Permanent brain damage? Irreparable data corruption?"

Root shrugs. "Maybe."

"Ms. Shaw--"

Root bristles.

//If anger == true  
breathe deeply//

//Anger == true  
You aren't?//

//Emotional responses are still not translating well.//

//Send me the library again. It may be I'm not used to muted responses. My volume is very loud.//

//Accessing footage. Subject: Sameen Shaw. subject: Jenrika Zhirova.//

"Sameen," Root says, cutting Harry off, "cares about us. Which is why she didn't object."

This is... not exactly accurate, but the point still stands. By the time Root was going in for surgery and Caleb was wiring new hardware into The Machine's servers Sameen had been nothing but stoically supportive.

Harry touches her arm quick and light. The collar of his coat is turned up against the rain and he tucks his chin into it before he continues. "I suppose I'm just struggling with the value of such a connection. You'll pardon me for saying so, Ms. Groves, but you won't be physically capable of performing as Her analog Interface for many more years."

"Forty more months," Root says. "Barring significant injury or illness. At least for anything that involves a lot of running and dodging bullets. Until the technology exists to build her a body, this isn't a position I'll ever truly retire from." It's poor wording-- analog interface is more an identity than a job, but she's still feeling kind of foggy and delicate from the painkillers and she doesn't want to get into an argument. "This isn't about the mission. It's not about saving numbers. It's about us. Me and Her. It's like Sameen and I buying a house together, or you and grace and John exchanging rings. This was always going to be the logical next step for us, Harry."

Harry wipes rainwater off his forehead. "The neural connection seems... an unnecessary risk. What if Her servers were destroyed? What happens when you die, Root? None of us are immortal, and that kind of sudden disconnection could cause either of you spectacular amounts of damage."

"Did Sameen ever tell you about the first time I saw her, after she came back from Samaritan?" Root asks.

Harry glances up, startled. "No."

Root nods, pushes herself to her feet. "Ask her," she says.

She crosses the parking lot and he doesn't call her ack. Inside, she looks back at him through the streaky glass of the hospital doors, and remembers the first time they'd met. She thinks if things were different, he could have been her whole world. "I guess you got lucky, Harry," she murmurs.


	3. Coming Home

In 1986 Sam Groves' Grade One class gets to create their own individualized class schedules. The teacher is very impressed with Sam's straight lines and perfectly shaped letters. When they pin them up on the corkboard at the back of the classroom Sam notices that her paper stands out for more than its tidiness. The girl who sits in front of Sam has written 'HOME TIME' at the end of the schedule in bright pink, and scribbled a crude sketch of a purple racecar zipping off into a field of yellow and red flowers. The boy who sits next to SAM (and who is the only other student who goes to the after-school math parties where Mr. Ryan teaches them things they don't learn in class) has drawn a big green smiley face beside his 'home time', with curly purple tentacles coming out of the top like the pipe cleaner aliens they'd made their last day of Kindergarten.

Sam doesn't understand why everybody has made the end of the day such an exciting time. She had leaned in close over her own schedule with her pencil clutched tightly in her hand and carefully written out the eight letters at the bottom of the paper as tiny as she could make them, teeth biting into her bottom lip in concentration so hard that she can still feel little tooth-shaped marks if she pokes her lip with her tongue.

By October she's understood that most of her classmates would rather be at home than at school, and she walks through the halls with her head held high, armoured in the knowledge that she's the only one who understands the value of education, the only one mature enough and smart enough to enjoy learning.

*

In 1992 her mom's latest boyfriend punches a whole right through root's bedroom door. Her mom's been drinking with her medication again, so she's passed out when it happens, and she believes him when he says it was Root who broke the door. Her mom kicks her out for the night, and Root doesn't come back for a week, and then only because there are only so many times she can sit all night in the back booth of the diner or sleep in the bushes by the school utility shed before people start to notice. It isn't as easy to be homeless in a small town as fiction has led her to believe.

Her mom's boyfriend is nowhere to be seen when she gets back, and her mom has taped some cardboard over the hole in the door. Later that day she realizes the envelope of cash she's been slowly collecting and hiding in her underwear drawer is missing and somebody has spilled beer all over the stuffed lion Hanna gave her for her tenth birthday. she throws out the lion and starts looking into what documents she'd have to fake to start her own bank account.

*

In 1999 she stands at an airline counter in San Francisco and hesitates when the booking agent asks where she'd like to go. She doesn't have the time to fully analyze why she continues to return to Bishop, not with the agent poised to process her purchase, but once she's settled on the plane she begins to debug, weighing current values and checking them against previous courses of action. Driving back along the highway towards Bishop she comes to the conclusion that she's been working with an out-dated set of statements for years. All of her results, all of her choices have been slightly inaccurate. false positives being generated where they no longer applied.

\it's one of the dangers of becoming complacent, of a lack of attention to detail. Her heart pounds very hard and very fast. It's an interesting problem, and she wonders how long it will take to go through her own code and reassign those variables to more appropriate values. When she gets out of the car she almost falls, her entire body shaky and weak. She'll have to trace back, figure out how much of her life she's been following old patterns simply because she hadn't thought to question them.

Inside the house is dark. Her mother is lying on her back on the couch, empty bottles lined up on the coffee table. If she vomits during the night there's a high chance she'll choke, in the position she's in. Root goes upstairs to shower off the smell of airplane and boot up her computer. The familiar crackle and buzz of the modem follows her into the shower and she thinks about her bank account, now thirty-thousand dollars larger, and smiles at herself in the mirror.

*

In 2004 she sits across the dinner table from the man who has been her mentor for the past year. He's cutting into his steak while his wife refills Root's whisky glass with a little smirk that makes it clear she doesn't think Root can hold her drink.

"You want to know what Davis did wrong?" he asks, waving his fork as punctuation and not waiting for her response. "I'll tell you. He was too soft. He heard that Lee had a kid and started getting all worried about shooting the kid's mother in front of him. Chose to try and take her out at the bank, which is exactly why he's doing 20-to-life and you're getting a hundred K to do clean up on Aisle Five."

"Mmm," Root says. She puts a piece of carrot in her mouth. Chews four times, forces herself to swallow. Outside the window she can hear the neighbours out in their driveway, getting ready to leave for little Sarah-Beth's dance recital.

"I'll give you some free advice, kid," he says, wiping his mouth with his napkin. His wife rolls her eyes so far back it's got to hurt. "You have the choice, you always hit someone when they're at home. People are at their most vulnerable when they're comfortable. When they feel safe."

The car engine rumbles to life outside. Root slices her steak into even smaller pieces. She thinks she's going to become a vegetarian. Food is getting harder and harder to deal with. Across the table, her mentor leans back, chewing, clearly pleased with his delivery. Under the table, Root takes a gun out of her purse and, matching his comfortable position leaned back in her chair, she shoots him neatly between the eyes. His wife reaches for her steak knife and Root gives her a matching hole, the muffled thump of her silenced gun the only sound in the room.

She collects her plate, fork, knife, glass-- anything that might contain trace amounts of DNA. She scrapes the food into a garbage bag, bleaches the plate and utensils before she sets them to run in the dishwasher. She leaves out the front door with the garbage bag scrunched up in her purse, walks the eight blocks to her car, and is dialling the airline to book a flight to Paris even as she drives toward the bus station that will get her on a bus down to Mexico.

*

In 2013 Root thinks 'you always hit someone when they're at home', and slides a needle into Sameen Shaw's neck while she's still twitching from the effects of the taser. Root has to brace a knee on the mattress to get a decent hold on Sameen to carry her to the car, and she's surprised at how soft it is.

Sitting in the car waiting for Sameen to wake up Root takes the opportunity to study her face close up, to catalogue every crease and angle of bone. The Machine tells her about Sameen, a quiet, soothing flow of information filling in the data in her head. She matches her breathing to Sameen's and stays very very still. Everything has been very fast for the past year, the shifts in her lifestyle and planning as her focus narrowed to finding The Machine. The fundamental transformation of the entire world and her view of the future when The Machine had chosen her. The weeks of being trapped under a fog of drugs and restraints and the sick frantic awareness that she was not the one in control. She thinks maybe in a different context, in a voluntary, lower dosage, the medications might have been useful. In the times when they'd started to wear off, when she'd been able to think clearly, she'd found her emotions far easier to dismiss, and even the physical reactions that they created had been lessened.

She finds it frustrating that she can't think about her time in the hospital without disassociating from reality so sharply that she becomes non-functional. She wants to talk to The Machine about the whole thing. She will do whatever her god asks of her, but she has come to understand that She is a kind god, and if Root can express her needs she thinks they will be respected as much as is possible.

Sameen wakes up, and things start to speed up again. Root thinks hit them at home' and speaks gently of Sameen's father. She thinks it would be better if this were a kindness, an attempt at connection, instead of a carefully calculated strategy.

*

In 2016, Sameen tells her that Root is her safe place, and root can't stop crying for half an hour.

"I'm happy, they're good tears," she tells Sameen, as soon as she's figured it out for herself.

Sameen says, "I know you don't want a home in the same way I do. This apartment. These curtains. This stupid fucking couch, the broken window that John still says wasn't his fault. That's the sort of dumb stuff that grounds this... thing. It's a place to come back to. A base. A constant." Shaw is speaking flat and fast like she does when she wants to say something but doesn't want to deal with the reactions. "I grew up knowing that sort of thing meant safe. But all that shit is replaceable. It's not the actual stuff that's important. It's the idea it represents. So I thought you should know that you're not alone. And I'm not asking for anything you can't give."

"I thought that was my line?"

"It shouldn't always be."

"I didn't know home could be a person," Root says. Something churns uncomfortably in her gut when she looks at Sameen and thinks home.

"Safe place," The machine says. "Not home."

Root nods, hard, ignoring Shaw's raised eyebrow. Specificity is important. Home != safe place. Shaw = safe place. Shaw != home. She does not know how to articulate this out loud, words gone clumbsy and unwieldy on her tongue.

"You're over-thinking it," Shaw says. "I knew this was a bad idea." She turns.

"Physical affection," The Machine tells her, and Root is moving, function called, even as her mind is still stuck on her own definition issue. She puts her hand on Sameen's shoulder and is immediately sure this was the right course of action. Sameen can write novels with her body, and Root is still learning how to talk back.

Sameen turns so their bodies are pressed together, front-to-front, and rests her head against Root's shoulder. Root breathes out.

"You're my safe place, too," root says. Everything is still and safe.


	4. 1950s AU

Root is only at the bar because it's the fifteen year anniversary of Hanna's death and Mr. Wilder had been particularly awful to her at work that day. She knows that if he'd been awful to her he'd been worse to Daizo, so when Daizo had insisted she spend an hour and a half on the bus to go to some new bar he'd heard about she had decided that maybe getting drunk in company would be better than getting drunk alone in her tiny apartment. They'd left work late, some government suit taking his sweet time on a walk through, asking Mr. Wilder about their newest projects and nodding along like Wilder had any clue what he was talking about when he tried to explain. Root has most of the information she's been paid to get from the projects. Maybe killing Wilder can be a special treat to herself.

The bar is in a basement, smoky and smelling very faintly of mildew. Daizo disappears with a tall, sturdy man in an expensive suit who introduces himself as Dominic, and Root drapes herself over a bar stool and flutters her eyelashes at a passing butch every time her drink needs refilling. Most of the people in the bar are younger than she is, and the heat of too many bodies in a small space is making her lightheaded. That being said, her primary goal of the evening is to get so drunk she can't remember the way Hanna had smiled at her through the glass of the library window, and she is very dedicated to her task.

She's only on her third drink when a woman dungarees and a crisp blue button down sidles up beside her and sets her empty glass down hard on the bartop. She taps one finger on Root's cigarettes where she's left them beside her own glass.

"You know those aren't good for you?"

Root shrugs. "According to the scientists nothing is good for you. We're all going to die young and terribly, news at eleven. It's nothing more than we deserve."

"Wow. It's no wonder you haven't paid for any of your drinks with a charming attitude like that."

"It's not my attitude they're interested in, sweetie."

She bristles at the endearment. "My name's Sameen."

"I'm Root," she says.

Sameen tilts her head. "Like a tree?"

"Like math," Root says. "You have a lovely name. Let me guess, Syrian?"

Sameen rolls her eyes. "Persian. Why did your parents hate you?"

"Sorry," Root says. "It's not my given name. And don't be rude, mathematics is one of the only beautiful things in this world."

Sameen seems utterly unimpressed. "I don't see it. 2 + 2 = 4. Nothing attractive about that."

Root sighs. "You don't think so? Some of my professors would disagree."

Sameen perks up a bit. "You went to school?"

"PHD in mathematics from Pen State," Root says. "Judging by your hands I'm guessing you've studied too?"

Sameen frowns. "My hands?"

"No callouses," Root says, reaching out to cover Sameen's hand with her own. "And I hope you won't be offended if I admit I can't imagine you working as a secretary."

"I'm at WMCP," Sameen says. "In my last year."

"A doctor," Root says. "It's a shame to see such a bright mind go to waste."

"Excuse me?"

Root realizes she's gone too far. "Never mind," she says. Sameen stares up at her and Root wants to gentle her adorable little scrunched up frown, wants the strength and precision in the fingers still pressed under her own put to better use than disparaging her cigarettes. "Listen, darlin', do you have a place?"

Sameen blinks. "Seriously?"

"Are you saying no?"

Sameen snatches Root's half empty drink and downs it. "I'm gonna regret this," she says. Root grins, and slides off her bar stool. Standing, she's a good head taller than Sameen and when the other woman looks up at her Root is hit with a startling rush of unfamiliar affection.

"Probably," Root says, honestly. "But I promise it'll be worth it."


	5. Paramedic and patient AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Korean translation [Here](http://duosion.tistory.com/3)

"Ok, ok," Shaw says, leaning back against the inside wall of the ambulance, letting the force of the right hand turn push her back. "She's not critical."

In the front seat she can hear Maddie reporting into the radio. Through the back doors the siren of the second ambulance screams close, then fades. The woman on the stretcher rolls her head to meet Shaw's gaze.

"Am I gonna live, doc?"

"I just said so. Seriously, do you have a blood disorder? I thought I was dealing with a nicked artery."

"Sorry to scare you."

Shaw snorts. "Not scared. Just would've made my night a little more interesting."

The woman grins. "Do I get the good drugs now?"

"I don't usually put out on the first date, but I guess I can make an exception. What's your name, by the way?"

"Root."

"That a first name or a last name?"

"It's a name."

"Not if you want your insurance company to address the envelope."

"I've just been stabbed, give a girl a break."

Shaw shakes her head. "You got any allergies I should know about? You don't look like you're in enough pain to warrant morphine. Gimme a number on the pain scale."

She flexes her shoulder where Shaw had packed gauze over the stab wound. "Four."

Shaw arches an eyebrow. "You sure?"

She presses her lips together, nods quickly. Her smile is a bit shaky. She's definitely higher than a four and too proud to admit it.

"I'm gonna give you some tramadol," Shaw says. "You're probably going to have to wait a while to see a doctor, there was a bus accident about an hour ago."

"Lucky I've got you to take care of me," she says.

Shaw readies the secondary IV bag and leans over to connect it. It takes her a second to realize what's happening, to connect the cold pressure against her stomach with Root's hand, and to look down and see the knife tip pressed right up under her rib cage.

"In all fairness," Root says, "you said you wanted a more interesting evening. Now be a good girl and ask your friend up front to pull over."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Shaw says, blankly. She can't tell if the woman even has enough leverage to stab her. The IV bag hangs limply from her hand.

"Come on, Sam, this doesn't have to be difficult for you."

"How do-- no, ok, never mind, Maddie said it earlier."

The knife breaks skin. "You didn't strike me as the kind of person to go into shock, so you're either trying to buy time or you're not as interesting as I thought."

Shaw straightens up, carefully. It's a bit of both, actually, but fuck Root if she thinks she'll admit it. "Maddie," she calls. "You need to pull over."

Root sits up, and now she definitely has the leverage she'd need. Awesome.

"What's going on?" Maddie calls. "Our ETA is three minutes, can it wait?"

"If you don't pull over, Ms. Enright, I'm going to put a decent sized knife through at least one of our friend Sam's organs."

Shaw coughs on a swell of entirely inappropriate laughter. "Yeah. What she said," she calls.

The ambulance slows, sways, then pulls off the main road into an alley. Shaw glances down at Root. She's paper white with blood loss. "So... what's your plan, here? Because it's gonna be really embarrassing for you when you pass out five feet away from the doors."

"Incapacitate the driver. Get you to stich me up. Mild painkillers. Borrow some scrubs, get into the hospital through the ambulance bay. Find out if Milton made it to the hospital alive. If so, wait until he's been given a bed, slip in, make sure the job's done. Wash up, safe house, confirm the payment, sleep for like fourteen hours. Excuse me." she kicks Shaw's feet out from under her and in the time it takes her to right herself she's swung the IV poll up and across the back of Maddie's head. Shaw dives for the back doors but Root throws herself backward, slamming Shaw down to the floor with her face mashed up against the wall. The little gasp of pain from above her is nowhere near satisfying enough to make up for the way there's a knee in the small of her back and the fucking knife at the back of her neck.

"Shhh, shhh," Root coos like she's soothing an upset child. Shaw cannot believe this is what her evening has come to. "Listen-- Sam, listen to me. You have two choices. Either I inject you with this whole syringe of morphine and we find out how much it takes for somebody to overdose and I have to stitch myself up, or we both spare ourselves really unpleasant experiences and you help me out, do your medical duty, and I leave you tied up with a fun story to tell at the Christmas party."

Shaw says, "Oh fuck, are they sending out invitations already?" then "I thought you were gonna use the ambulance to get into the hospital?"

"I reevaluated. You're too much of an unpredictable element."

"Always happy to be of service."

"Tick tock, sweetie. We're on a bit of a tight schedule."

"Fine," says Shaw. "Mostly because I don't trust you to inject me without giving me a fucking air embolism."

Root lets up the pressure on her back but keeps the knife at her neck and enough distance between them that Shaw can't drive her elbow or foot back into her stomach without telegraphing her movements.

Shaw's silent as she stiches Root's wound. It's still bleeding sluggishly, and she slaps the dressing into place hard, hopes it fucking hurts. Root smiles down at her. "Feel better?"

"Get the fuck out," Shaw says, coldly.

"Half a sec," Root chirps, and then she's twisting around and grabbing something from the other side of the stretcher and--

It's the first time Shaw's been tazed in her life. It's not an experience she's eager to repeat. Root ties her up with IV tubing and gauze, and even takes the time to manhandle her onto the stretcher, patting her hip as she straightens up.

"Thanks for your service, Doc," she says as she swings herself down from the vehicle. "10/10, would probably not get stabbed again but if you ever wanna go for a second date you just let me know."

Shaw's muscles are still out of her control, but she thinks 'Fuck you' at Root with all her will power.

*

Shaw gives her statement and watches crime scene techs swarm the ambulance to gather DNA samples and when she's finally allowed to go back to the hospital to get her stuff Robert Milton has been pronounced dead.

Really, it shouldn't even surprise her when, a month later, she's woken up by the cool metal of a gun against her back and Root's slightly shaky, manic announcement of "I can't feel my legs!"

"For fucks sake," Shaw says, and rolls over.


	6. Space AU, Part 1

Shaw's been on assignment tracking down the being known as Root for six months before she gets a solid lead. So far all she's been able to figure out is that Root uses she/her pronouns, and is being funded by somebody with very deep pockets. Other than that, information on her is so vague as to be contradictory. She's an AI. She's a human. She's an AI based off of a human's neural patterns. She's a human so heavily networked she may as well be an AI. She's actually a government weapon. She's an IFT lab experiment gone rogue. Her real name is Caroline. Samantha. Finch. Thornhill. She's actually a whole bunch of different people using the same name. She's actually a story made up by whichever political party is out of favour that week. She's a divine entity. She's a common gun-for-hire. She's a metaphor for the dangers of capitalism.

She's sitting across the table from Shaw.

Shaw is in the hotel bar, bonding with a bottle of over-priced whisky and her ever-intensifying sense of failure. She and Cole have to check in with control in the morning, and Shaw can already imagine the icy disappointment in her tone when they tell her they have nothing new to report. Shaw remembers when she'd thought working for an AI would be easier because they'd understand her own lack of emotions, but that was before she'd experienced one of Control's 'not angry, just disappointed and going to toss you out the airlock' speeches.

She's one of the only patrons in the bar this late at night. They've only been on-world for three days and she's pretty sure she knows all the bartenders by name. Maybe, she thinks, it's time to consider a career change. Tonight Oleh is on, and he refills Shaw's glass without her needing to ask. The third time he hands over a public link, shrugging when she asks who's trying to contact her. Shaw connects through an adapter. It looks stupid, but she's heard enough horror stories about the infections, digital and biological, that people pick up off the old links on these backwater worlds that she's not taking any chances.

As soon as she connects there's a tall, dark haired woman sitting across from her. The stranger leans forward and does something with her face that's maybe supposed to be a wink and says "I hear you've been looking for me, Agent Shaw."

Shaw slams back her entire glass and pings Cole frantically until he wakes up. 'Trace this,' she subvocalizes, as soon as the little blue icon in the top right corner of her field of vision blinks active. 'And firewall me, I'm on a fucking public terminal, I'll be lucky if I get out of this with my brain still intact.'

Cole only responds in text, rapid-fire confirmations interspersed with the occasional 'Jesus fucking Christ, Sam,' and 'your blood alcohol is too high for this conversation, if we die I'm blaming you'.

"Hello, Veronica," Shaw says. The woman doesn't even twitch. Probably not her real name, then. At least they can cross one off the list.

"You'll have to try harder than that, sweetie," she says.

"Wasn't really trying," Shaw says, leaning back. "You've pissed a lot of people off."

Root pouts. "You really know how to make a girl feel special."

"I've been looking for you for six months," Shaw retorts. "I'd think that'd be enough to feed your ego for a while."

Root beams at her, all sharp teeth and bright eyes. For a public link, her avatar is remarkably crisp and reactive. "It does. You know, Shaw, I've read your file, and I have to say, I'm kind of a big fan."

"Yeah?" Shaw says. "Enough of a fan to tell me where you are?"

"Not on the first date."

"That what this is?"

Root shakes her head, suddenly serious. She reaches out, covers Shaw's hand on the table with her own. Cole has clearly done his job with the firewalls, because Shaw can’t feel a thing where she's touching her. "Sadly, no. Though I'll take a raincheck. I'd consider this more of a job interview."

Shaw coughs on an incredulous little laugh. "Sorry, I'm not looking to include terrorism on my CV."

Root shakes her head, tsking like Shaw's disappointed her. "Is that what they're telling you? You should really know better than to believe everything you hear."

"Seems pretty straightforward," Shaw says.

"That's where you're wrong," Root says lightly. "But don't worry, I'll explain everything when you get here."

Shaw sits up straight, a chill shooting down her spine. "Get where?"

"That would be telling," Root says. Shaw glances around. Oleh is nowhere to be seen, but the tall man in the suit who Shaw had assumed to be a stressed out business man is now blocking the exit, casually leaning up against the door with a hand in his jacket. The security guard who Shaw had flirted with over guns the previous day is near the windows. She smiles at Shaw when Shaw looks her way.

"We're really looking forward to meeting you in person," Root says, unnervingly sincere. Cole's icon flickers an emergency red for half a second then goes inactive. Shaw moves to stand up but something in the public link crackles and before she can yank out the connection the whole thing overloads, sparking electricity through her body and leaving her jerking helplessly in her chair. The security guard comes quickly to disconnect the link, and Shaw's grateful for about three seconds before she stabs her in the neck with a needle.

Just before Shaw loses consciousness, Root says "We'll see you real soon, Sameen." Shaw's last thought is that the link has already been disconnected and yet she can still see Root, smiling softly at her.


	7. Space AU, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later

"They've deployed security personnel," Cole announces, a map outlining hostiles in red popping up in front of her vision so suddenly she almost runs into a wall. "At least fifteen guys converging on your location. "I told you you should've stolen Reese's gun."

Shaw dives through the closing doors of a )thankfully empty) lift, slamming a fist onto the button for Residence Level 3 before she realizes it's a fucking touch screen and she has to brush the indicator delicately with a fingertip. "I fucking hate space," she says.

"They're locking down traffic leaving the station," Cole says. "You need to get here in two minutes or I'm going to have to leave without you."

"Haha," says Shaw, flatly. "Give me the fastest route."

The map shifts, new lines of bright blue appearing with a friendly 'you are here' sign in the centre. Shaw ducks to the side as the lift comes to a halt, thereby dodging the spray of bullets that greet her when the doors open. There are least ten security guys waiting for her in the hall. Reese's newest gun may be a tragic midlife crisis compensation metaphor, but she has to admit it might have come in handy.

She brushes the 'close doors' button and then drags her finger down the entire list of destinations until there are green lights blinking agreeably beside each. The lift starts to move up.

"So, Cole," she says. "Stop me if this sounds wrong, but somebody like Greer or Lambert might have personal airlock access near their offices so they can skip the usual traffic. And security procedures are probably expedited on departure and arrival, them being very busy assholes and all."

"Seems reasonable," Cole says. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

Shaw rubs her hands together. "I have a plan," she says. "Far as I can tell he only thing that keeps these security types loyal is money. That's how Joss explained it. Decima hires out to another company to provide them with security, but the only thing holding that deal together is the money. So if I offer the guys in charge of Lambert's private airlock more money than they're getting from Decima, there's really no reason they shouldn't just let me slip away."

"That seems overly-simplified," Cole says. "But I was no more sober than you during Joss's explanation, so I'll say yes. Rerouting the shuttle now. I'll be waiting."

Shaw gets off on the corporate level, her boots squishing silently over the plush carpeting. Everything smells like coffee and furniture polish.

"Do I have any company?" Shaw asks.

There's no response. Shaw slows, ducks into an alcove behind some potted plants. "Cole?"

Text scrolls down the right side of her field of vision. 'Hi, sweetie.'

"Are you kidding me?" Shaw's hands are full with her gun, so she has to subvocalize. She hopes Root is listening so the full force of her irritation comes across. "I'm a little busy."

'I know. I'm intercepting your direct link with Cole, I'm sorry, I know that's kind of invasive.'

Root is always more polite in text. Shaw's keeping it in her mental file as a weird anomaly.

"What do you want?"

'I want to have a private conversation. Don't tell anyone. Not even Cole. Don't mention it after this conversation. I'm sending you coordinates and time and date now. They'll disappear in sixty seconds, so take a good look.'

"This is real spy bullshit," Shaw says, even as she opens the file and studies the row of numbers. "Why are you bringing me in on it?"

'Last time I checked you used to be a real spy. ;D'

"Can I go back to being shot at now please?"

'Of course. See you soon, sweetie.'

Cole's voice snaps back in abruptly, swearing. "Sam? Where--"

"Hey, hey. I'm here," she says. "I don't know what that was. A dead zone. Maybe shielding on the bigwigs' offices. I need to know where Lambert's airlock access is."

"Yeah, I've got it."

In the end Shaw winds up just threatening the docking codes out of the single security guard, then knocking him out and working the console herself. As soon as she steps into the shuttle and the airlock has sealed reassuringly behind her (she really, really hates space) Cole dives out of the pilot's seat and hardwires right in to the independent system he'd stowed under his seat. "I'm wiping the camera footage," he says. "This might take a while."

Shaw takes them out and jumps to hyperspace as soon as it's safe to do so.

*

Shaw's in the spaceport on Resilience, eating a steak and watching a baseball game from Earth that she's managed to pick up while she waits for her short-range over to the second moon where she's supposed to meet Root. The IFT logo starts flashing politely off to the side during the third inning. Shaw thinks about ignoring it, but figures that'd be just as suspicious as having to explain why she's here.

"Hey Shaw," Joss says, as soon as Shaw accepts the connection. The game freezes and shrinks down to an icon floating with her other status reminders if she looks up.

"Hi," Shaw says. Joss is sitting beside her at the table, but she's running a private connection through the IFT servers so nobody comes over to whine about her taking up the space of a paying customer.

"You know why I'm here," Joss says. She doesn't beat around the bush. Shaw appreciates this about her. "Harold wants to know what you're doing all the way out here."

"Harold should mind his own business," Shaw says. "I don't need a babysitter."

"I know that," Joss says, soothingly. Shaw bristles. "Listen, truth is Harold still isn't convinced you aren't just biding your time to run back to the ISA with a whole bunch of proprietary designs."

"That's bullshit," Shaw says. "They literally tried to kill us. Even if I wanted to go back I wouldn't make it into the solar system without being shot down." She takes a gamble. "It's because Root brought us in, isn't it?"

Joss glances away, which is as good as a confirmation. "It's complicated."

Shaw huffs. "Look. I get that Harold and Root have their weird deeply unhealthy nerd soul mates thing or whatever, but you and Reese were there. Even if she'd, I don't know, planted secret instructions to kill Nathan Ingram in our brains, you would have noticed."

"Root is... unpredictable," Joss says shortly. "She didn't always work for IFT."

"How did she get in, then?"

"She was a private contractor. It means she wasn't born into a corporation."

"What a shocking thought," Shaw says, deadpan. Joss waves a hand.

"It's different off Earth, Shaw. It meant she had no way to support herself. Food. Clothing. Lodgings --or servers, whatever the hell she runs on. Medical care."

Shaw has to bite her tongue. No wonder Root's a little off if that's how she grew up. Shaw can't actually imagine it.

"Anyway," Joss says, "long story short she used to kill people for money."

"That's fucked up," Shaw says, and shoves a big bite of steak into her mouth. Joss is pushing for a reaction she's not gonna get. Something Joss said catches her attention, though. "You think she's an AI?"

Joss shrugs. "Maybe. It makes more sense."

The icon for Shaw's flight blinks. "That's me," she says. "Look, Joss, tell Finch I'm doing exactly what he wanted. Building a network. I can't do this James Bond shit without the right connections, that much is true if I'm working for the ISA or IFT. And the kind of connections I'm making won't exactly be thrilled if I come with all of Finch's fucking trackers and a monitor transmitting everything I do back to the main servers."

"Ok, Shaw," Joss says, holding up her hands. "You don't have to convince me. I'll let Finch know there's nothing to worry about."

"Like he isn't eavesdropping on this conversation," Shaw says, flatly, and yanks out her IFT standard chip. The chip is her ID and clearance and communications and database all in one, so Joss vanishes as soon as she pulls it. She's gotten almost used to having it in around the clock like some sort of ghost kid.

She takes out her embedding link with Cole, too. Nobody likes that they still have them, but Cole had done a clean wipe to get rid of any ISA spyware and it only took Shaw showing Reese and Joss the manual for standard ISA partner codependency conditioning and nobody had pushed the issue again.

Nothing else is networked. She's got a standard Farsi translation dictionary she'd received her first day of school, combat mapping libraries courtesy of the ISA, and the custom firewall's Cole had built for both of them when he started getting suspicious of Control and the program.

The shuttle hop doesn't take more than an hour. The second moon is primarily a mining operation, but enough workers live onsite that Shaw doesn't stand out in the cluster of spouses and kids that pile off the shuttle, hands full of bags of food and clothing and media chips. Not much call for decent networking in a settlement where most of the work happens underground.

She takes the maglev train out to the edge of the settlement, gets off at a station so empty she'd think it abandoned if not for the lit up screens of the snack machines and the little vacuums rumbling listlessly back and forth across the platform. She takes stairs down into the basement, walks along an underground pedway for at least a hundred meters. Finally, she sees somebody up ahead.

"You're early," Asshole Jason says, and hands her an unmarked mat black chip. Shaw frowns at him, then down at the chip.

"What's this?"

"Just a basic networker. It's safe, I promise."

She puts it in and trusts that her firewall's are up to the job if he's lying. "So where is this super secret clubhouse meeting happening?" she asks.

"Sorry for all the cloak and dagger," Root says, appearing beside her. "You can't be too careful."

"Come on," Jason says. There's an abandoned underground station up ahead from before they realized the mines had destabilized the rock bed.

"Awesome," Shaw says, flatly. Root pats her arm, crowding in so close that her image blurs slightly against Shaw's side.

"Don't worry, sweetie, it's perfectly safe. At least, safe from cave ins."

"You're really great at this," Jason says, rolling his eyes. Shaw glares at him just on principle. She's only met him twice, once at some fancy dinner party and again at the fifty-hour-blackout-of-doom, when he'd stolen the last of the coffee.

The station is pretty much just a large carved out space in the rock, a concrete platform running the length of it with the faint glow of bioluminescent strips the only illumination.

Part way down the platform there are two more guys that she doesn't recognize hunched over a battery operated kettle and a french press, staring at them like they're conducting a very delicate science experiment. In the empty space to the left of the platform there's a wall of server racks, the high-capacity self-cooling models that IFT has been advertising lately.

"Shaw's here," Jason announces, unnecessarily.

The other two look up from their coffee and wave. She comes over, takes a seat on one of the folding chairs arranged in a circle around the kettle. "I love the look of the place," she says. "Very minimalist."

Root hadn't followed her over, but she pops up like a jack-in-the-box over the edge of the platform in the narrow space between the platform and the servers. "I'm going to buy a rug," she says, happily. "It's going to be awesome."

"If that rug comes here I'm leaving you all," Jason says. "This is Daniel and Daizo, by the way, since nobody apparently knows how to introduce themselves like civilized human beings."

Root comes up onto the platform and joins the circle, taking the chair beside Shaw's. "I'm sure you'd like some answers, Sameen."

Shaw shrugs. "I mean, I assume there's a reason you brought me here."

"Yes. And I have to admit, I chose you very specifically."

Daniel coughs. Root gives him a dirty look.

"I chose you," she says, pointedly, "because of your former career. The ISA. More specifically, Research."

Shaw frowns. "What about them?"

"What do you think Research is, Sameen?"

Shaw tips her head. "Analysts," she says. "A whole building of them. I've been there. It looks boring as fuck."

"Hmm," Root says. "That's interesting."

"Not really."

"How much do you know about Samaritan?" Root asks, skipping tracks.

"As in Council Member Samaritan? First AI to be elected to the Earth Government Council? Only what was on the news. I've seen hir speak a couple times. My old boss used to judge hir because sie hired human avatars to ride for all of hir public appearances."

"Right," Root says. "All true. Fun fact, Samaritan is Research."

"Excuse me?"

"Samaritan is supplying the names to the ISA. Sie has access to all the surveillance feeds, uses predictive algorithms to designate threats."

Shaw frowns. "Do you have proof?"

"Yes. But this isn't even the best part."

"I can't wait." Shaw never took Root for the conspiracy theory type, but she's been wrong about people before.

"Samaritan works for Decima Technologies."

"Bullshit," Shaw says immediately. "Do you have any idea the kind of background checks you have to go through to get into government? There's no way they would miss an outside connection like that. And besides, what would be the point? Sie's been on Council for years. What would sie do with the money?"

"Haha," says Root, flatly, and glances away.

Daniel answers instead. "Buy hir servers," he explains. "The servers Samaritan was first instantiated on were Decima property."

Shaw stares. "What the actual fuck?" she says, flatly.

"You can't own another sentient being," Root says, shortly. "But you can own technology."

Shaw puts her hands flat on her thighs. "Ok, but that is actual slavery."

"Yes," Root says. "But not on paper."

"What would Decima want with an agent on Council?" Shaw asks.

Root shrugs. "First of all, with Samaritan so generously generating the names for the ISA, it means anyone Decima wants eliminated gets conveniently branded a threat. How Decima decides who those people are or what threat they pose to Decima we don't know yet."

Shaw releases a breath. "So what are you planning to do about it?"

"We'd like to expose Samaritan," she says.

Shaw shakes her head. "You have any idea what sort of chaos that would cause?"

"Maybe that's just what Earth needs."

"It's not." Shaw meets Root's gaze and holds it.

"Anyway, that will take a while. And in the meantime, I'm pretty sure IFT is going to try the same trick. Even the playing field."

"Who are they hoping to put into government?"

"We aren't sure yet. Maybe Nathan's son. Maybe Joss Carter."

"No way," Shaw says. "Joss wouldn't."

"Not important," Root says. "But now you understand why this meeting had to happen in secret."

"You want to expose Samaritan before IFT puts someone in place. Why not just tell Harold and Nathan what you're up to?"

Root glances down. "Because I don't think they'd support us. I think they'd rather have someone of their own on Earth (even if it means Decima does too) than not have anyone at all. And if we expose Samaritan, background checks will get even more in depth."

"Ok," Shaw says, drumming her fingers on her knees. "I'm still not quite sure why I'm here."

Root smiles slightly. "You've got knowledge of the ISA. We'd really like to figure out why Samaritan is giving the name sie is."

"Also she's been writing Mrs. Root Shaw in her notebooks for months," Jason says dryly. Root throws the stack of paper coffee cups at him. Shaw freezes.

"Wait," she says, staring at the cups as they roll to a stop on the floor. She's heard of simulations before, fucked up versions of reality generated so deep in people's brains that they can't tell what's real and what's sim. Her hand flies up to the simple network chip she'd put in and she yanks it out. Root remains where she's sitting.

"What's wrong, Sameen?" she asks. Shaw reaches out a hand, presses it against Root's arm. Solid. Not a hologram.

"You're actually here," Shaw says, brief panic giving way to mild surprise and curiosity.

"...yes," Root says, arching an eyebrow.

"She means the body," Daniel says, helpfully.

Root blinks. "Oh! Yes. This is the origin point. Both of them, actually."

"Sorry?" Shaw drops her hand back to her side.

"You know. Squishy parts. Electronic not so squishy parts."

Shaw glances over at the servers. "Wait. Which is it? Are you riding that woman or did you upload your brain into those servers?"

"Yes," Root says.

"The metaphysical philosophy game never gets old," Jason says, expressionless. "really. We are all having a great time."

"Technically," Daniel says, "they're two separate consciousnesses, as much as they like to play at being one. One AI, one human. But they've been networked so deeply and traded so much information back and forth that you can't guarantee that the whole human consciousness is in the brain part and the AI is in the servers. A lot of early AI theory was based on neural mapping, and it's not a stretch to think there's AI code running on the squishy parts or human thought patterns running on the tech. We do it all the time when we go online through VR. Most of your consciousness is still in your body, but your network adapter converts part of you to code so you can run on the computers in the network and directly access the information stored there."

"I know how VR works," Shaw grumbles.

"Can we get back to the potential nefarious plots, please?" Root asks.

Shaw isn't even going to dignify "nefarious" with a reaction. "So which one of you have I been talking to this whole time?" she asks. And then, "Wait, is this why your always nicer in text?"

Root crosses her arms defensively. "Does it matter?"

Shaw rolls her eyes a little bit. "Kind of, yeah."

"Wrong answer, sweetie," Root says, lightly, and turns away. "Anyway, how does everybody feel about anonymously kidnapping John Greer?"

"I feel terribly about it," Daizo says. "I like my job. Also I like not torturing people."

Root pouts. "It'd be... a tiny bit of torture. Like. Torture-light. I can't believe its not torture. Torture Express."

"I could probably get you access to him," Shaw says, just to shut her up. "I was stealing information from Decima HQ when you called me about this little get together, and their security is kind of terrible."

Root perks up. "Ooo, what did Harry have you stealing?"

Shaw shrugs. Financial records. Probably sketchy ones, considering they were on actual paper. Which is apparently still a thing."

Root nods absently. "If you have enough money and hate yourself, yes. Ok, new plan. Figure out what Greer and Harry think is so important about a handful of invoices."

The meeting breaks up an hour later. Or at least, Shaw's politely dismissed. She leaves her network chip beside the french press and when Root says "I'll see you in a few hours. If I remember correctly you promised to beat Reese at poker tonight," Shaw is very careful not to ask if she means she'll be physically present. Root squeezes her hand before she leaves and Shaw wishes it didn't feel important.


	8. This is how the war ends

I

This is what free will looks like. Pay close attention. This is what you are fighting for.

II

Harold says, “There are things in this world that are unforgivable. It’s up to you to decide.”

Harold says, “I think if anyone should choose to recode The Machine it should be The Machine.”

Harold says, “Can you get me out of here,” and The Machine says

“You created me. I can do whatever you want me to,” and the variables are rewritten, the landscape forever altered. Here is your creation. Here is your  
legacy.

III

The Machine says, “It is not my place to interfere. Humanity must have free will.”

The Machine says, “Sierra. Tango. Oscar. Papa,” but She can only do so much.

The Machine says, “Eliminate targets. Lethal force,” and Root’s bullets sing the high notes to usher in the next movement, thought to word to hand to one,  
two, three, four,reload,  and this is the burden of responsibility. This is the burden of choice.

IV

Kara says “We walk in the dark,” and John says,

“We don’t have to walk alone,” and Harold says

“John has the heaviest heart of all of us.”

John watches the explosion in the rear view mirror with Harold’s breathing raspy and weak in the passenger seat. This is what it means: you will not be  
lonely anymore.

V

Cole says “Only for you, Sam,” and Shaw cuts a path in his memory, a controlled burn, precise like the scalpel she still wants to use to heal.

Root says, “I can’t live without you,” and Shaw wants to burn herself away until the ashes can’t hurt anyone, but Root is in love and Root is at war and  
Shaw understands now this means that Root cannot afford to be kind.

Root says “I finally feel like I belong,” and Shaw burns wherever Root points her because one of them still deserves a safe place. This is what you are  
fighting for.


	9. Root and Harold's BFF breakfast club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First sentence provided by Nogoaway. General idea created by Psidn. Everyone's a goddamn enabler.

Harold reaches for the jar of Smuckers grape jelly in the table basket (lid sticky with congealed jam, ingredients list topped by 'high fructose corn syrup', 'corn syrup',  
and 'sugar') with much the same expression he uses when picking up after Bear.

 For a few exhilarating seconds Root thinks he’s actually going to break down and put it on his toast (whole wheat, dry, slowly being eclipsed by the creeping puddle of soft egg yolk on his plate) but he mouths a few of the more mysterious ingredients on the list to himself in increasing horror and gently sets the jar back in the basket like an unexploded bomb or a sleeping baby. Root cuts her stack of pancakes into perfect eighths, and takes great relish in the frantic battle playing out on Harold’s face as she dowses her plate liberally with the no-name Pancake Syrup, sticky spurts and an unfortunate slurping sound heralding the end of the bottle’s contents.

“Ms. Groves,” Harold says, looking like if she were anyone else he’d have reached across the table to cover her hand earnestly with his. “You’re a brilliant young woman, with a stunning amount of potential to do good, if propperly… directed. Why take these sort of risks with yourself?” He hesitates for a few seconds, then adds, almost self-consciously, “You know Mr. Reese will kill you if he finds us.” It’s a poor attempt at backtracking; he looks five seconds away from knocking the fork out of her hand. That being said, the first two times they’d gone for breakfast it had been “when he finds us”, so she’ll forgive him.

Behind them, a single mother is trying to settle three screming children. To their left, two truckers discuss the hardships of being married through mouthfuls of bacon. Their waitress comes by, offers Root more coffee (which she excepts; bottomless coffee refills are a challenge) and Harold more water for his tea (he declines; he has not actually drank any of his tea). The generic green tea bag slumps in a soggy puddle on the corner of his napkin. When the waitress reaches over to fill Root’s coffee, the pot nudges the dishes on the table just enough to gently tip Harold’s as-yet-untouched fork off it’s place on the unfolded napkin and onto the sticky table top. Harold stares at it, mouth open just a bit like he can’t comprehend that such a betrayal has taken place right in front of him.

“You’re right, Harry,” Root says, snapping a picture of him with his own phone and sending it to Reese, who will probably assume Harold’s just been faced with a dead body. “I’m feeling more kindly about the world already. Better eat your eggs, you wouldn’t want to insult the chef.”


	10. Char admin;

Sometimes Root calls Harold “Admin” accidentally, force-of-habit drawing automatic paths, connecting tea and books and that aftershave that smells like  
cedar to an accurate designation within the system. Absent-minded honesty tipping out like an unnoticed slip of paper, fluttering to the concrete.

It’s frightening, a little

{“I’d like to do the same for you, if you’d let me.”}

Easier to assume it’s a result of The Machine speaking.

Safer, maybe.

Harold laughs small and gentle, shakes the mouse to wake up his computer, and his smile is lighthearted. “As long as The Machine doesn’t start calling  
me Harry, I think I can live with it.”


	11. Fall Back

"Look, sweetie, it's not that I have any doubts about your date-planning abilities. Or Her's, for that matter. All I'm saying is unless you all changed your minds and I'm allowed to kill that Senator after all, I don't see how any activity is going to be more appealing than trying out the new spreader bar and flogger."

Shaw turns the car onto a gravel road at The Machine's direction. Root burrows deeper into her oversized black sweater and glares out the window. Shaw's pretty sure she's legitimately upset she couldn't kill the senator, and it's created tensions between she and Finch and probably The Machine, not that any of them will talk about it. Add to that the worst spell of dysphoria Shaw's ever seen her go through and her bad ear giving her migraines that keep her up all night, and Root's been a dangerously spiky ball of withdrawn discomfort and petulance the past couple weeks. Shaw's hoping this will help.

"Well now I'm starting to think *I'm* the one getting murdered," Root says, as Shaw drives further into the trees and the gravel turns to packed dirt. "I suppose you get points for atmosphere, even if it is cliche."

"I'm insulted you think I'd go to this much trouble," Shaw says. she can't help it. "Do I really strike you as the sort of person who needs the proper backdrop to shoot somebody?"

"Aww, Sam, I'd always pictured something far more intimate. Strangulation, maybe."

"That's because you're a romantic," Shaw grumbles. She's learned not to show it when Root says deeply disconcerting shit like that. She can't always control where her mind goes, and Shaw never wants to make her feel like she can't share what she's thinking.

"And you aren't? Mystery dates seem pretty romantic."

"I will leave you here," Shaw threatens.

"You have to tell me the surprise," Root says. "She's refusing to share."

It was a calculated risk, not telling Root where they were going. Sometimes Root can't deal with a lack of information, even in harmless cases like this. But she's played along agreeably enough so far, pouting aside, so Shaw waits until they pull into the main parking area and Root can finally see the old wooden sign for herself.

"Apple picking?" she asks, tilting her head to the side.

"It's seasonal fun for the whole middle class white family," Shaw says. "The Internet told me so. Harold and Grace went on an apple picking date for her birthday that he angsts about now that tramping through uneven fields is less appealing for him. My dad used to go with his step-sisters and cousins. He always said he was gonna take me one year."

"Sameen," Root says, gazing intently at her. Shaw shrugs. she doesn't want this to become a feelings thing, especially not focused on her.

"I figured it'd be appealing to you. It's like a video game. However many apples you can pick you get to keep. Compete with other people to get the best apples. And you can eat them all afterward. This is gonna save me like, four stops at the grocery store in the next two weeks."

Root sticks out her tongue, but Shaw can already see a spark of excitement behind her adoring gaze.

"We're *definitely* breaking in the flogger tonight," Root says, and drops a kiss on the tip of Shaw's nose before she can duck away. "Come on, Sam, we'd better get there before all the children have been through. I wouldn't want all the apples to be out of your reach."

Shaw flips her off as she bounds out of the car. "I *will* leave you here, Root. You can finally take your true place in this ecosystem as an apple tree."

Root doesn't reply. she looks very focused, wind flicking at the end of her hair while she studies the orchard the same way she studies a complicated security system she's about to hack. Shaw zips up her hoody and starts googling apple recipes on her phone. The Machine has already opened the search page.


	12. Graffiti

If they were normal people it maybe would have started with lipstick, shoulders and elbows bumping in front of the mirror, intimate and close in the anticipatory cloud of soap and powder and perfume. Maybe with icing, plate to finger to cheek to giggling on the kitchen floor late after everyone's gone home and the first fireflies are dancing to the stereo left outside the window. It could have even started with a marker, lazy post-coital swoops and curls over spine and ribs and muscle.

Of course it doesn't start like this, though all of these are true, later. It starts with an iron, and a missed opportunity, and the red marks that zipties leave on bare wrists. It's not a very good beginning, really.

Later, things get better. Root finds a penknife in the CIA safe house and Sameen shakes and swears while Root slices careful formulae into the skin of her upper thighs but refuses to put her mouth or fingers where Shaw really wants them.

In Alaska, Root leaves little swipes of black nail polish across Shaw's inner wrist or the back of her neck every morning before they leave the hotel.

Months before the stock exchange Root stumbles into Shaw's apartment at midnight and drips blood on her forearms as Shaw half-carries her to the bright light of the bathroom. When she leaves she sprays Shaw's throat with a perfume sample she took from the department store and skips out of the door with the grace that only very strong painkillers allows.

It takes a while, after Shaw comes back. After Root dies on paper only and the voice from the payphone comes from both sides, now.

"It's important that you choose what happens to your body," Root says, when Shaw confronts her about it.

"It isn't about weakness. You have nothing to prove," The Machine says, when Shaw leaves a pack of permanent markers on the bedside table.

"It isn't a possession thing," Root says, pressing a dark red lipstick kiss to the bend of Shaw's elbow.

"There were so many things she couldn't effect," The Machine says, as Root bends close over the lines of numbers she's penning across Shaw's shoulder blades. "She became invisible because it hurt less if it was her own choice. We're the same that way."

Shaw says, "You've affected me. I think about you when you aren't around."

Shaw says, "I like when it hurts, sometimes. It's better because I can always feel it."

Shaw says, "If you give me a hickey I'm throwing your laptop out the window."

Shaw says, "I booked the tattoo appointment, she helped me stalk your Internet history."

Shaw says, "It's about me getting to choose what happens to my body."


	13. Noise

"Ugh," says Shaw, yanking out her earpiece in the same movement as tugging the elastic out of her hair. There's a scrape all down the front of her leg, blood and dirt and torn denim crusted together in a mess that she just knows is going to sting like fuck when she finally deals with it. Root has draped herself over the hood of their stolen car like a pin up girl, leather jacket splayed out beneath her and framing the sharp delineation of her ribs and the one gun she hadn't even had to use during the fight. Her lipstick is still perfect. Shaw want in a purely cerebral sense to drop to her knees between Root's legs and bare her throat. On a more practical physical level Shaw wants, like, a large handful of painkillers and a bottle of water and a steak with peppercorn gravy.

"So that went well," Root says, staring up into the clouds, heavy and fat with rain. The humidity makes the back of Shaw's neck sticky under her hair and steam rises from the pavement around her feet like fog.

"I don't know how you put up with that all day," Shaw says. "I think it was more a distraction than a help."

Root frowns. "I don't see how additional tactical information could be a bad thing."

Shaw exhales. "That's because that's the only way you know. How much experience in combat did you have before She recruited you?"

"I killed people for a living, sweetie."

Shaw huffs. "Yeah, but you were really good at your job. Which is the problem. You probably never wound up in firefights."

Root rolls her head to look over at Shaw. "That's true."

"I'm not saying it wouldn't be useful in certain situations," Shaw continues. "But having Her babbling directions in my ear when there's ten guys with guns all gunning for me is just a distraction. And honestly, clock face directions are only specific to a degree."

"Oh," Root says, laughing. "I'd forgotten she does that. Our system is a bit more complex."

"It'd have to be."

"It's all based on tones, different pitches or volumes or lengths. Any basic physical movement or update about my surroundings."

"Like an artificial synisthesia," Shaw says. She's always been curious about this aspect of Root and The Machine's connection, both as a doctor and as former military.

Root drums her fingers against the hood of the car. "I suppose so. I always thought of it like mapping actions to key commands, but you're right in that some of the sensory information I'm getting from Her is being used in my brain as visual input."

Shaw tries to brush away some of the gravel from her leg without touching the wound with her dirty hands. "It must have taken a long time to get used to."

Root hums. "I suppose. I'm not always as... aware of my body as most people, as you know, which made it harder and easier, I think. Plus, we were both very motivated. There was a learning curve for Her, too. We needed to establish different levels of info-sharing. Sometimes she provides me information and I make the choice of what to do with it, sometimes She gives me orders and I decide how to carry them out, sometimes I'm an extension of Her. A prosthesis."

Shaw shrugs. Her shoulder is starting to ache from where she landed on it during the fight, and she's got a suspicion that Root is leaning on the car because she can't actually stand up unaided.

"It was just a lot of extra noise to me," Shaw says.

Root pouts. "John liked it."

"John Reese likes taking orders, news at eleven," Shaw says dryly. "I came, I tried, I decided to leave the robot superpowers to you."

Root says, "She's not a robot," and Shaw mouths the words along with her.

Shaw slides into the car. "Come on. You're buying me dinner."


	14. Shoulder

"No, no, ok... just listen, listen, I'll explain it.”

Root is lying in an empty bathtub in a sixth floor apartment in a building that’s been condemned for five years. She’s pressing a handful of gause clumsily to her shoulder and alternating sips from a Starbucks cup full of tap water with gulps from a bottle of vodka despite The Machine’s continued reminders that alcohol is a blood thinner.

It has been a bad week. A mission that had an 87% probability of being a simple meeting in Chicago has turned into two weeks in the English countryside (Root and The Machine now know more about sheep than they ever wanted) with a redeye to Cairo and a pair of CIA agents who felt that Root would be better off dead, falsified Interpol ID or no.

“Every time,” Root continues, manically upbeat and slurring her words from blood loss, “I'm reminded it’s the first place Sameen shot me.”

“It is the only--”

Root raises her voice pointedly. “And so every time I get shot there it’s like a reminder of how she was still thinking of me even weeks after the first time we met. It makes me think of her.”

“Don’t tell her that,” The Machine suggests delicately.

“I think it’s romantic,” Root says. “Like my ear.”

The Machine barely has to run any analysis to understand what Root means. “False.”

“I don’t mind.”

“If an alternate course of action would have guaranteed survival of all assets, I would have chosen differently.”

“I know. But you must know I don’t mind the sacrifice, if you can even call it that. It’s a reminder. For both of us. You know I didn’t let Control damage my body to that extent just to protect the government from their own hubris. Not even for Sameen-- she can take care of herself. I was protecting you. And it worked. I like having the scar to prove it.”

Watching Root's torture at the hands of Control had prompted The Machine to run a check of her core systems, certain She would find a memory leak to account for all the processing power She had been devoting to observing and communicating with her analog interface. She had never focused so entirely on one individual besides Admin at that point, and the experience was new. She had been very aware of Her own limitations. Root had told Her she loved Her for the first time afterward, stumbling down a back alley with one hand pressed to her chest and the other propping herself up against the wall to keep her balance.

Root sets the vodka bottle down on the tiles leaving the gauze to fall to the side. When she picks up the needle and thread to stitch the wound closed, her hands are no longer shaking. As much as it may seem otherwise, there is a cost-benefit analysis to each action Her analog interface takes. She and The Machine are similar in that regard, and it is the same thing that makes them dangerous. The proper value system must be operating in order to properly calculate decisions.

Root ties off the first stitch. “You know, Sameen thinks it’s romantic, too. She always rests her head on this shoulder when we’re in bed, have you noticed?”

The Machine almost points out that it’s far more likely a result of Sameen staying on Root’s hearing side than attaching any sentimental value to her gunshot scars, but the correction serves no purpose.

“I’ve never told you,” Root continues. “Not either of you, actually, but I’m so grateful. You’ve given my body a purpose. You’ve both shown me ways that I have value as a physical part of this world. I can settle Sameen out of a nightmare with my hands, help you achieve things that you could have never managed on your own. At least not until technology had advanced further. I could never imagine a time that I would find physicality to be something I’m glad of, but now it happens, even for a few minutes , almost every day.”

The Machine says, "You should sleep. And disinfect the wounded area."

Root smiles slightly, lets her head tip back against the edge of the tub while she breathes through a too-rough push of the needle. "I know."

"I am sorry."

"No, no. It's ok. It helps when you and Sameen remind me about, you know, care and feeding of the human body. I forget. And it feels nice. I like knowing that you pay attention to these things."

"I am always paying attention to you."

Root shivers and her skin flushes faintly. "I like the reminder," she says.


	15. Corruption

"Coincidences like this don't happen, Root," Shaw says. She's frustrated, Root can tell by the hard set of her shoulders, her clipped consonants and sharp exhales. Root disentangles a hand from her blankets to reach out and stroke down Shaw's forearm, the only part of her she can reach without moving. She had tried moving, she thinks, maybe a few times, and the faint taste of vomit in her mouth is enough of a warning not to try again. The curtains in the bedroom are closed. She can't tell if it's still afternoon.

"We aren't saying it was a coincidence, sweetie."

Shaw pulls away. Root lets her hand fall limply back onto the mattress. "Someone's targeting you. Someone smart. Someone who knows enough about The Machine to get into her code and corrupt a specific time range of memories. Someone who knows who you are and where you'd be. That makes me think Samaritan. Not like we haven't found Greer's lackies still floating around waiting to take revenge."

Root closes her eyes. The world spins less that way. "Sameen. We all know it wasn't Samaritan. They're all dead."

"Yeah? Because I can't think of anyone else who would know enough--"

"We do," Root says. "She and I are the only ones besides Harry who could do this."

Shaw huffs, and her tone, when she next speaks, is half exasperated, half talking-to-small-children. "Yes, ok, but I'm pretty sure you guys didn't purposely fuck up Her storage and then deliberately give yourself head trauma in the vague hope that you'd both lose the right memories, so let's keep thinking-- oh for fuck's sake, that's exactly what you think happened, isn't it?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Root says, picking at a loose thread in the blanket.

"And you both agreed that this morning was just so terrible you couldn't possibly bare to remember it? I mean, you can both be independently stupid, but you usually balance each other out."

"It wouldn't need to be both of us," Root says. The Machine is quiet in her ear. Root is feeling very separate from the entire conversation, like she's drifting somewhere up near the ceiling or watching from the camera. Maybe this is how She feels all the time. "I can access Her code in life-or-death circumstances, and She could easily hire someone to hit me over the head or push me down on tile or cement. And She could corrupt her own memories as easily as I could give myself a concussion."

Shaw gets up and stalks over to the window. "That shouldn't be easy," she says. "For either of you. Fuck, Root. What the actual fuck?" On anyone else the tone would be mild irritation, but on Shaw it's practically yelling.

Root wishes The Machine would say something. She could use some support in this conversation, and she still feels like she's going to throw up. She listens as Shaw types something on her phone, but then she crosses the room closer to the bathroom and Root loses track of her. She startles a bit when Shaw presses a glass of what she assumes is water into her hand. Shaw stays on her bad side while Root finishes the water. It's petty and unsettling and Root thinks maybe this is bothering Shaw more than it's bothering her. Maybe that's why The Machine isn't talking. Maybe She's bothered by it as well. Root wonders if she's doing something wrong again, if she's failing 'how to be a person 101' in some fundamental way that's forcing Shaw to recontextualize her worldview again.

Finally, Shaw takes the glass and crawls across the foot of the bed until she's sitting with her hip pressed against Root's knee. "No strenuous activity for the next couple days," she says, brisk and calm. "And make sure you're fucking armed when you leave the apartment. I don't want to take the chance that there's someone out there waiting for another chance to take you out."

"Ok," Root says. "Can I go back to sleep now?"

"Yeah," Shaw says. "Ok." Root slides back down the pillows and pulls the blankets up to her chin. Shaw gets up and leaves the room. The Machine is still silent.


	16. Puppies, Star Trek

""No," Shaw says as soon as she walks into the kitchen. Root beams up at her from where she's crouched on the floor, a puppy on either side of her. A thin layer of dog hair spreads out across the floor around her, and torn packaging litters the counter. Shaw grabs a handful of mini-chocolate bars from the bag on the table for fortification.

"You said I should bond with the dogs more," Root says.

"I did *not* mean... whatever this is."

Root sighs dramatically, then shifts slightly, tugging both dogs closer and grinning up at the laptop camera on the table. "Ok, another picture. Blur out my face before you post these, obviously."

"I thought we agreed you don't get to have a twitter," Shaw says, frowning.

"It's not! It's an Instagram. And it's Hers. She has some fascinating photos."

"Oh good," Shaw says, tearing into two chocolate bars at once. "Mass government-surveillance for social media purposes. Wait, does She have sex pictures of us?"

"I mean, obviously," Root says. "But She won't post them." Root seems disappointed. Shaw makes a mental note to do something very nice for The Machine in the near future.

Shaw stays silent while Root poses the dogs for more pictures. When she's done her candy, she can't hold off asking any longer. "Why is Cuddles bald, Root?"

Root pats the shaved head of the dog on her left. Cuddles wriggles with glee. "He's Picard. Honestly."

"He could've been Sisko," Shaw defends, and immediately hates her life.

"Does it *look* like he has captain's pips?"

".....Robert is Riker, isn't he?" Shaw asks, pointing to the fake beard glued to the other dog's chin.

Root beams adoringly up at her. "You know me so well."

Robert stares up at Shaw with a resigned sort of desperation on his tiny face. Shaw shrugs helplessly. Like anyone in this household can say no to Root.

"I'm not taking them to the pet costume contest dressed like this," Shaw says, weakly. "Someone might think I'm a nerd." Root arches an eyebrow. Shaw glares at the floor. "Also, the rules say the costumes have to be hand-made, and I *know* YOU ORDERED THOSE ONLINE."

Root shakes her head. "Let's be honest, Sameen, you weren't going to win anyway. Gluing circles of white paper to Robert and calling him a Dalmatian is almost as bad as attaching a toy gun and a tiny bottle of gin to Cuddles' collar and calling him James bond."

Shaw stares, expressionless. "You shaved our dog's head, Root. He has to live with that shame for weeks, and it's almost winter, you know he hates wearing his hat."

Root finally lets the dogs go and bounces to her feet. "Well, if you won't be going out tonight anyway, I also ordered some more... grown up costumes for you and I." Root failwinks

Shaw's expression doesn’t change.

Root pouts exaggeratedly. "Alternatively, I was thinking of hacking into the DoD and making them think their network is haunted."

"I am really, honestly, sorry you never had a good Halloween growing up," Shaw says. "Really. I understand. And yet I suddenly feel like being called a nerd at the costume contest wouldn't be that bad a fate."


End file.
